


Only if for a Night

by misstriplem



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games), Red Dead Redemption 2
Genre: F/M, Young Arthur Morgan, arthur morgan - Freeform, red dead redemption 2 - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-19 00:42:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29617971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misstriplem/pseuds/misstriplem
Summary: Arthur meets a young, bold waitress in the wake of Mary Gillis' departure and finds himself strangely captivated.
Relationships: Eliza/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Only if for a Night

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Obviously, this is my interpretation of Eliza and what transpired between them.  
> 2\. There is a wee hint of sexy things toward the end, but not smut.

Blood and grit clung to him like a second skin.

He’d washed in the river before he rode into the sleepy, sordid town, albeit hastily and without much care for his already gruff appearance. He knew the man waiting for him in the saloon would mind, however, and so had spared the precious few moments to wade into the cold mountain runoff, his clothes still donned, and scrubbed as the swaths of rust-colored stains that coated his calloused hands. Bits of it still lingered beneath his nails, but there wasn’t much for it.

Arthur Morgan would only end up painting them with more blood, anyway.

He tugged the brim of his worn hat over his eyes as he stalked up the stairs to the saloon doors. He shoved them open and nearly collided with an exasperatingly jovial fellow whose arm was on an equally jovial—and markedly painted up—woman of ill-repute.

“Out of the damn way,” Arthur growled, punctuating the command with a cautionary glare in their direction. He watched, both disgusted and pleased, as the man skittered around him like an insect, towing the rather put-off lady with renewed vigor.

The man he’d been set to meet sat at a nearby table—one of the prime spots in the decidedly dingy parlor, which was not at all a surprise to Arthur. He lounged as though he were a king upon a mottled throne of lies and untoward deceit, an enigmatic smile carved on his face. Most folks who met Dutch van der Linde found themselves both captivated and terrified; his smile was as deadly as it was beautiful, much like a dagger bejeweled with ill intentions.

Dutch motioned for Arthur to take a seat beside him. “You’re as pleasant and cordial as ever, Arthur,” he said by way of greeting. “Come on, then. I’ll buy you a drink. You look like you need it.”

Arthur jostled the chair from beneath the table and sank into it. It was uncomfortable, just like everything else about this town, this world, this civilization. He took off his hat and placed it on the table beside Dutch’s and smoothed his hair back into place. The strands were mottled with sweat and he was sure he reeked of the errand he’d been sent on, despite his poor attempt at cleaning up.

Dutch’s smile remained as he took in the sight of Arthur, scrutinizing him in a way that always made him feel both seen and entirely transparent.

“So?” the gang leader asked, his eyebrows raised in vivid expectation.

Arthur sat back in the chair, wincing as the wood pressed into the sore muscles of his back. He’d sleep like hell tonight, he knew; he was getting too old for this sort of thing.

“It’s done,” he replied tightly, glancing around the saloon only once to ensure no prying ears were listening where they should not. He propped an elbow on the back of the chair, perhaps unconsciously trying to emulate the ease with which Dutch carried himself, knowing all the while he was but an imitator, lost in a sea of expectation that constantly battered him against its insistent shores.

Dutch nodded, visibly pleased. “I had no doubt,” he said, his eyes bright with the promise of more dastardly deeds to be done. “Have you seen Hosea yet?”

Arthur shook his head. “Not since I tracked them O’Driscolls into the hills.” He rubbed absently at the back of his neck. “He said it might be a while before his part was done.”

“That man is an artist,” Dutch replied with tangible fondness. “Once this is done, Arthur, that son of a bitch Colm O’Driscoll will never outsmart us again.”

They’d caught wind of Colm and his swarthy gang the minute they’d stepped foot into this town. The leader of the O’Driscolls played fast and loose, a fact which resulted in a trail of bodies left behind in his wake. Colm had sent a few of his boys to strike up a deal with one of the investors in town. Once Hosea and Dutch discovered the ploy, they sent Arthur to track down the O’Driscolls involved in the budding scheme while Hosea took over the deal. It was a lot of work just to hit back at the gang that rivaled theirs, but money was money and orders were orders, as far as Arthur was concerned. He still wasn’t sure on the particulars, but the feud between Colm and Dutch was one to rival even that of Cain and Abel. There’d been some big to-do years back that had resulted in the death of Colm’s brother and, soon after, a woman Dutch had been sweet on. It didn’t much matter to Arthur; the O’Driscolls wanted to watch the world burn, where Dutch wanted to conquer it. He supposed there was some honor in that, at least.

Not that he deserved any of it, but it was nice to claim a bit of it, all the same.

Arthur sighed, suddenly and entirely weary, and brushed a bit of the stubborn dirt from his pants. “Well, whatever happens, at least we’ll get some money out of it.”

Dutch nodded. “That is certainly true.” One of the saloon girls sauntered up to their table, a bottle of freshly opened beer clutched tightly in her hand. She placed it with reverence before him and he favored her with another cloying grin.

“Thank you, my dear,” Dutch said as he pressed his fingers to the girl’s below. He indicated Arthur, who stiffened at the attention, and added, “If you would be so kind as to bring one for my friend here.”

Arthur frowned, his black ire stirred, and glanced out the nearby window. His fingers tightened into a fist in his lap as the girl leaned toward him, careful to keep a safe distance from his seething aura.

“What would you like, mister?” she asked. Her voice was calm, unafraid, and it only served to incite Arthur’s anger further.

“Beer,” he uttered curtly.

He saw her nod out of the corner of his eye and whisk away toward the bar, her plain skirt swishing along the filthy floor. Arthur would not look at her; as long as she remained a specter at the edge of his vision, then he would be able to tame the ferocious anger boiling beneath his skin.

Dutch let out a terse sigh. “Arthur,” he said crisply, “you ain’t doing yourself no favors by acting like an upstart little shit.”

It was true—what was more, Arthur _knew_ it was true, which only made him feel worse. He took a breath and turned back toward the table, though he kept his eyes firmly on the slick, stained wood.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Guess I been acting like a fool these days.”

Dutch sipped his beer. “Yes, you have,” he replied frankly. After a moment he spoke again, this time with a softer, more understanding tone. “Trust me, son. Hosea and I know what you’ve been through. But we _need_ you, Arthur. We can’t change the past, but we _can_ change our future. And that ain’t going to happen without you.”

Arthur nodded. The words bolstered him a little, though they were tinged with a sort of inexplicable hollowness that he couldn’t quite explain. Then again, most days felt hollow and insufficient, now that Mary Gillis had run off with Barry Linton, or whatever the hell his name was.

He swallowed against the bite of anguish that tightened like a vice grip around his heart. The worst part of it was that Arthur still loved her, knowing all the while she would never utter his name again. She’d promised him that much, at least, the morning before she’d left for her new life.

A life Arthur had once thought would include him.

The waitress appeared before them again and set the fresh beer in front of Arthur, though without the sense of almighty worship that inherently came with Dutch van der Linde’s presence. Arthur snatched it up, careful to keep his eyes elsewhere, and tipped the bottle to his lips.

“Anything else I can get for you gentlemen?” she asked. The tone was sweet, but Arthur could sense a hard, unyielding edge to the words. He knew without glancing up that her eyes were on him, though she spoke to both of them. He said nothing; Dutch was the flowery speaker, after all.

But Dutch remained silent—purposefully silent if Arthur didn’t miss his guess.

His hand tightened on the bottle. “No,” he shot back gruffly. “We’re fine.”

Anyone else would have tripped over themselves to put as much distance between themselves and Arthur as possible. And yet, the girl stood by, her hands clasped in front of her and her posture uncowed and undaunted.

“You sure?” she prompted. “You look like you could do with a meal. I could grab you a menu, the food ain’t too bad—”

“I said we’re fine,” Arthur growled, each word dripping with venom. And, because he had every intention of wallowing in the misery that swirled like a powerful current in his gut, he took a long draught from the bottle and willed the girl away. But, because he was a fool and a glutton for punishment, Arthur felt his eyes slide toward her.

He froze.

He swallowed the mouthful of bitter alcohol as his hand stilled, hovering in the air of its own accord. His traitorous eyes fixated on the face staring back at him, marveling not at what he saw but what he didn’t see.

For the first time in nearly half a year, Arthur Morgan did not see Mary Gillis’ face.

The girl was plain, at least compared to the ladies that so often graced the shadowed crevices of saloons. The waves of her chestnut hair were swept into a full, tight bun at the nape of her neck, though a few loose strands curled at her temple. As if sensing their rogue presence, she tucked them behind her ear, something Arthur was sure she did without even realizing it. Her shoulders were set and her eyes—a startlingly crisp shade of hazel gray—held him fast and firm.

All at once, Arthur was acutely aware of his surroundings. The world shuddered back to life in a blaze of color and riotous sound. His heart gave a single lurch in his chest, as though it, too, had been subdued into inertness and only now deigned to be rekindled. He slowly lowered the bottle back to the table, conscious of every twist and bend of his taut muscles.

He must look like a goddamn idiot.

But the girl didn’t seem to mind. She only gave him a wry, knowing grin before nodding and saying, “I’ll bring you a bowl of stew.” She held up a finger of caution and added pointedly, “I can’t promise you it won’t taint your insides, but at least it’s real meat.”

She turned on her heel and made her way toward the bar. Arthur watched, both horrified and intrigued, as she leaned across the counter and mumbled to the man firmly occupied with cleaning glasses. He nodded, albeit it a bit reluctantly, and wandered off to fetch the food.

The girl smiled, clearly used to being the one in charge, and grabbed a few bottles of beer before falling back down on her heels. She glanced up and, finding Arthur still watching her, gave him a quick, sly wink before darting off to wait on the rest of her eager, mostly inebriated customers.

Dutch chuckled and settled back into his chair. “See, Arthur? Sometimes we find our way forward even when we ain’t trying.”

Arthur said nothing. What was there to say, when the world had suddenly gone from pale nothingness to the vibrant, unmistakable vestige of life? The girl— _the woman_ , he silently chastised himself—was entirely unremarkable. She wasn’t a queen nor was she a saint; he could tell that much from the purposeful steps she took, the way she wove through the milling crowds with a surety that entirely escaped his capability. She did not wear fine clothes, as Mary had, but there was a certain indelible strength to her that had ensnared him and quite insistently dragged him back to the world of the living.

He took another sip of his beer, more careful this time to pay attention, to watch where she went and how she went. He knew without quite be able to say how that she’d been lost before, too; it was in the set of her eyes, he supposed, in the silent, unmuted strength with which she looked upon the world. But she’d found her way through the throng of hopelessness and carved out a place where she might live among people without fear of the past.

And Arthur Morgan, who had already counted himself among the dead, found that there might be something worth living for, after all.

*

Arthur sighed and cursed his own stupidity with each passing moment.

The perpetual cloud of dust hung like a languid veil in the air, even this early in the morning. The saloon doors were shut tight; it would be an hour yet before it opened to the public. Much of the rest of the town had already begun to shoulder the day’s tasks, a testament to the fortitude of the townspeople. Arthur hadn’t cared much for this sort of life and avoided the thronging streets of towns as much as he possibly could. He’d been a wanderer for as long as he could remember, unmoored and forever destined to amble through the world on nothing more than whims and necessity.

And, despite all of that, he found himself propped on the bench outside the saloon, waiting for a woman whose name he didn’t even know.

He slipped the still smoldering cigarette back into his mouth and pulled in a long, scalding breath of tobacco. Arthur flicked away the ash and sighed out the smoke, relishing the feel as it singed its way through his lungs. He’d considered leaving a hundred times already; after all, there was no telling when or if she’d show up. But despite his frequent and loud misgivings, he remained resolutely put until the waitress from the previous afternoon showed up to work.

Arthur took one last drag on the cigarette before tossing it away. It was clear that he’d finally taken leave of what little sense he had. He’d woken before dawn that morning, lost in a fog of brown eyes and chestnut hair. The girl had been nothing but kind to him, and he been everything _but_ nice to her. It was a strange sentiment for someone with as cold and distant a heart as him to feel, and yet…

“You moron, Morgan,” he muttered angrily as he jolted from the bench. There was no reason to be hung up on such a trivial matter. How many saloons had he frequented in the years of his borrowed, pitiful life? What did one decent girl matter when his heart was still torn asunder and his presence here already near done?

He shook his head, banishing the thoughts, and glanced toward the locked doors behind him. He certainly was a fool, there was no doubt of that, but even this measured beyond his profoundly limited intelligence. Arthur tugged down the brim of his hat, set his jaw, and began his descent back down the stairs. They’d be gone once this business with the investor was done, and then life would resume its natural course—whatever that was.

Arthur’s boot hit the second step just as a figure sidled directly into his path.

He glanced up sharply, a scathing remark ready to fly from his lips. It fell away and landed among the dust when he caught sight of the waitress.

She danced back a step as a surprised gasp fled her lips. She wore the same plain skirt and cut-sleeved blouse as yesterday, and Arthur noted with some dismay the dark circles beneath her eyes.

“It’s you,” she said after a moment. The woman crossed her arms and watched him curiously, the ghost of a smile gracing her lips. “The saloon ain’t open just yet.”

Arthur nodded. “Sure. That is, I weren’t here for a drink or nothing.” He winced inwardly at his clumsy, poor manipulation of language.

She raised an eyebrow and the smile faded. “I ain’t that sort of woman, mister, so you best rid yourself of that notion and fast.”

He started, gaping at her assumption. “Oh, no,” Arthur blurted with a shake of his head. “That ain’t why I’m here at all.” He gestured toward her and added quickly, “I don’t mean that you ain’t pretty or nothing, it just ain’t why I’m here, is all.”

Arthur would have been better off drawing his revolver and shooting himself in his useless head for all the good his words had done him.

She watched him for a moment before her smile beamed bright and true. The waitress danced around him and climbed the steps to the front doors without a word. Arthur remained where he was, the weighty consequence of his foolishness hanging over him like the rays of the climbing sun and watched as she tugged a key from a pocket sewn in the folds of her skirt.

“Harley’s usually too drunk to open on time,” she explained as she slid the key into the lock. It came away with a flick of her wrist and she collected the slightly rusted chain with practiced ease. She turned back to him and nodded toward the doors. “Come on, then. You might as well be useful if you’re going to loiter in front of such a reputable establishment.”

A strange, unknowable sensation fluttered through Arthur’s chest. He cleared his throat and crossed the short porch to the doors just as the woman tossed him the lock and chain. He nearly fumbled the weight but held firm, blinking up at her in surprise.

She wasn’t at all like Mary Gillis, and Arthur felt a quick burst of shame for not having noticed sooner.

“Look, miss,” he said as he glumly eyed the chains curled in his hands. “I just—I wanted to apologize for the way I spoke to you yesterday.” Arthur shifted where he stood, wildly and entirely uncomfortable. “It weren’t right.”

She raised an eyebrow at him and remained silent. After a moment’s consideration, she nodded, and replied, “Well, I appreciate that. Most men don’t bother with apologies.” A smile crept onto her lips. “This certainly is a welcome surprise.”

The waitress reached for the door, but Arthur beat her to it in a sudden rush of remembered manners. He swung it open and gestured for her to enter, dipping his head toward her with a small, wrangled smile.

“After you,” he said.

She grinned, her eyes alight with amusement. She entered into the shadowed, curtained light of the saloon but, before he could follow, turned around and faced him once more.

“What’s your name, anyhow?” she asked, her brow knit with curiosity.

This was the part where Arthur was supposed to lie. He felt the old familiar names he’d used in the past flit through his mind, each one more ridiculous than the last. Lying was easy and safe, and yet the thought of giving her a name that did not belong to him felt oddly wrong.

Before he could think twice, he found himself replying, “Arthur. Arthur Morgan.”

The woman beamed at him. “Pleased to meet you, Arthur Morgan. I’m Eliza Montgomery.”

*

It wasn’t until his fourth visit to the saloon that Arthur was certain he was in a good deal of trouble.

As a man who prided himself on subterfuge, it’d become more and more difficult to hide his intentions from the all-knowing perceptions of Hosea Matthews and Dutch van der Linde. But they said nothing of his excursions and only turned the other cheek as he mounted up and rode into town, their shared gazes writ with the all certainty that their wayward son had finally come to his senses.

Arthur wasn’t sure of much, he considered as he placed the empty bottle onto the table, but he knew this had nothing to do with sense.

It was impulsive and reckless and bound to end in disaster.

He laid a heavy hand on the table and drummed his fingers idly on the wooden tabletop. Arthur had spent the last few nights searching for a reason to turn his back on the town—on Eliza. He knew he didn’t belong in this place; he didn’t belong anywhere, let alone in the seat he’d inadvertently claimed as his own in a dusty old saloon, watching a girl he barely knew sweep through a place as though she were the rightful heir to its high, vaulted beams and dingy, ill-suited windows.

Arthur sighed and looked toward the door. The saloon was thriving, though not nearly as busy as some of the ones he’d visited in larger, more prominent cities. There was still time to leave. He could go and never look back, knowing all the while that Eliza Montgomery would be far better off without him lingering about the place like an errant shadow.

As if summoned by his dreary musings, Eliza slipped up to his table and placed a fresh beer in front of him. He smiled up at her (he was surprised that he could still manage it since Mary stole more than just his love) and tipped the bottle to her in thanks.

Eliza placed a hand on her hip and clutched the handful of empty bottles with expert ease in her other hand.

“You know,” she said with a smirk, “it’s bad for business to have surly men such as yourself hanging about.”

Arthur had come to discover that she had a certain way about her, one that bespoke a sense of confidence earned through grit and determination. He found it intriguing. He respected it—it was entirely unlike the other girls he’d had the misfortune to know, however few there were.

And it was entirely unlike Mary, who been content to take the straightest and fastest path away from Arthur that she could find.

“You wouldn’t be insulting one of your best customers, now, would you, miss?” Arthur teased. The fluttering returned with the shine of her smile, and he found a sense of comfort in the familiarity that they were both lost souls who had, in some way, shape, or form, found a way to muster the wherewithal to persist against the current.

Eliza fetched his empty bottle and chuckled. “Jimmy’s my best customer. He pays more than you do.”

“Now that,” Arthur replied with a wag of his finger, “is a hustle if I ever heard one.”

Eliza winked. She made to turn and head back to the bar but paused and glanced at him. “You never did tell me what it was you do.”

Arthur felt the façade crumble and fall to pieces around him. This was what came of living the ghost of a life meant for other people; he was only ever outside of it, a willing outcast, forever banished and unwanted. He felt his smile fade and the ease along with it. He would lie, just as he always did, and that would be the end of it.

He forced levity into his expression and replied, “Business.”

Eliza raised an eyebrow. “That’s quite vague, isn’t it?”

Arthur sipped his beer. “Ain’t much more to it than that,” he said after a moment. It was true, after a fashion—except for the lying, stealing, and killing, of course.

She considered the response and for a moment, Arthur wished she would see through the lie. He imagined what it would be like, to be honest for a change; he hadn’t even been entirely honest with Mary, a choice that had ultimately been his downfall. But the longer he stayed in the saloon, the more he lingered in Eliza’s presence, the more Arthur felt as though he were edging toward something promising and entirely unknowable.

“How about this,” she said as she leaned toward him. Arthur felt his chest tighten the nearer she drew. “For every beer you drink, you tell me something honest.”

He pondered how long he could keep up the fantasy before it all crumbled at his feet. Arthur nodded, lifted the beer in agreement, and said, “Okay, then.”

He wasn’t very honest, but nor was he entirely a liar. Arthur spun a strange tale indeed, sifting between half-truths until he’d crafted a life that felt like it belonged less to him and more to a figment of his decidedly unremarkable imagination. In the end, Eliza knew more about him than most other folks, and it was this that gave Arthur a meager sense of comfort.

Eliza told him how she’d been orphaned at a young age, a thread of truth that mirrored Arthur’s own. She’d been raised by an aunt who’d never had children of her own and saw little use for them; it was she who eventually sent Eliza to work once she’d outgrown her usefulness at home. First, it’d been at the hotel as a bath girl, though Eliza had been dismissed the moment her employer had discovered she’d refused a male customer’s advances. She was shipped off to the saloon shortly after, though it’d taken Harley some convincing on her part.

Arthur stayed until the barroom emptied, watching from the shadows as Eliza cleaned the tables and cleared away the last vestiges of the night’s consumptions. He waited for the moment when she would turn to him and tell him it was time to go.

But she always let him stay.

*

Eliza swiped her brow with the heel of her hand and blew out a frustrated breath.

Arthur frowned, the near-constant flutter in his chest tightening into a bolt of concern. He turned, bracing an elbow on the bar top, and asked, “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head, her storm-cloud eyes distant and distracted as she placed empty bottles on the counter and fetched new ones. In the weeks he’d come to know her, Arthur had become privy to the quiet persistence that defined her. It was an unexpected trait in one so young—she was only nineteen, as Arthur so often had to remind himself—and an admirable one, at that. But there was something else lining her tight, more reserved expression that night, one that set Arthur on edge and made his hand instinctually twitch toward the revolver at his hip.

There was little that couldn’t be solved with a fist—or, more to the point, a gun.

Eliza paused and glanced at him before quickly turning away. “Nothing to worry about,” she replied with forced levity. She took the fresh beers and made to sweep back into the thick of the raucous din of the parlor. The movement was quick and jagged, a far cry from the grace and surety with which she moved. One of the bottles jostled and slipped from her grip. Arthur jolted toward it, handily catching it before its untimely demise.

She sighed and set her shoulders. Eliza glanced at him, her lips pressed into a grim, thin line, and muttered, “Thanks.” She held out her already occupied hand and nodded toward it. “I’ll take it.”

But Arthur only held tight to the slim brown bottle, his eyes focused entirely on her. They had been these past weeks, watching and memorizing the fluidity of her movements, the ease of her smile. Sometimes Arthur fell asleep to the memory of her laugh, the way it spilled so simply and with such grace from her lips.

He found it impossible to think of little else save for how he might bring back the smile that had so thoroughly and completely captivated him.

“You get this back,” Arthur said as he held up the bottle, “when you tell me what’s bothering you.”

Eliza stiffened, her eyes hard with the instinct to protest. Arthur wasn’t exactly a skilled man—at least not in the sorts of enterprises in which good, well-meaning folks involved themselves—but he had a way of drawing out secrets when they would have otherwise been kept locked away.

She shook her head and her shoulders sagged. He watched as her eyes darted toward the parlor, sifting through the sea of faces before landing on one that was at once familiar and entirely unpleasant.

“It’s just Jimmy,” Eliza explained, an air of dismissiveness in her tone. “His tongue a bit looser than it usually is tonight.”

Arthur stiffened. He should have known. His hand clenched on the bottle and, for a bright, searing moment, Arthur imagined his fingers wrapped around Jimmy’s scrawny, useless throat.

He took half a step toward her, his bulk blocking the rest of the room from her sight. “What’s he saying to you?”

Eliza’s eyes cut to him. “He’s been coming here for years, Arthur. It ain’t nothing I haven’t heard twice over.”

He glanced toward Jimmy, tucked away at one of the corner tables with a handful of other surly gentlemen at his side. As a man who dealt with—and dealt _out_ —more trouble than he cared to consider, Arthur could recognize the same vein of propensity in someone else with startling accuracy. It was written clearly in the snide, curdled grin that lined Jimmy’s mouth and the sharp, narrowed gaze that swept over the room in search of Eliza.

Arthur handed her the bottle. He was dimly aware of her voice calling out to him as moved away, the words insistent and uncharacteristically frantic.

“Arthur!” she hissed at him. “Arthur, what are you doing?”

He paused just long enough to look over his shoulder. Bloodlust pooled in his veins, a wild and desperate flow that called to Arthur with its deadly siren’s song.

“This won’t take but a minute,” he said flatly.

*

Jimmy’s smile was painted with blood by the time Arthur was finished with him.

He writhed on the ground, filthy fingers clawing at the dirt and mud. A long, strangled moan spilled from his swollen lips as his arm tenderly cradled his battered middle. Frantic, pain-clouded eyes rolled toward Arthur; one of them was already half shut and crusted with blood from a still weeping wound on his brow.

“Alright,” he whimpered. “I get it. Please, just stop.”

Arthur spat and wiped away the flecks of blood and spittle that coated his cheek. His shoulder ached but it was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Jimmy had gotten in one solid throw before Arthur unleashed the bottled-up fury he kept harbored in his blackened heart. Jimmy lasted only a moment before the force of Arthur’s punches drove him swiftly to the ground.

He looked down at the sorry excuse for a man, his mouth twisting into a disgusted grimace. Every moan proclaimed his weakness, every inch he crawled away from Arthur a testament to his pathetic, useless nature.

Arthur lifted a hand and pointed it squarely between Jimmy’s battered eyes. “I ever see you around here again, I’ll kill you.”

He watched, silent as a sentinel, as Jimmy fumbled to his feet. The man cast a few wary glances back at Arthur as he stumbled, hunched and holding his middle as if for dear life, around the back of the saloon and out of sight.

Arthur lingered a moment in the warm night air. He carefully flexed his fingers and glanced down at his reddened knuckles, waiting for the bloodlust to abate long enough to think beyond the haze of furious red that clouded his vision. He dropped his hand, cast one last look at the place where Jimmy had slipped like a shadow in the night, and made for the backdoor of the saloon.

Eliza was waiting for him in the threshold, her arms crossed, and her brow knit with fierce consternation.

“What were you thinking?” she asked pointedly and without fear.

Arthur’s steps ground to a halt. He was taken aback by the question, brought to heel by the tremor of anger in her voice.

He wasn’t thinking. He never did, not when the mottled hatred and festering ire took control.

“He was bothering you,” he replied with a shrug.

She sighed and pressed a hand to her forehead. “I didn’t ask you to do this, Arthur. When he comes back, he’ll tell Harley—”

“He ain’t coming back,” Arthur interjected, his hands sliding to his belt. “Trust me on that.”

Eliza’s lips parted, her eyes wide with surprise. “He was my best customer, Arthur. No one pays as much as he does.”

This wasn’t at all the reaction he’d expected. He pointed to where the imprint of Jimmy’s writhing form was still carved into the mud. “You want that drunken fool back in here running his mouth just for a few bucks?”

She dropped her arms in frustration. “I get the most money when he’s drunk!”

Arthur shook his head. He’d gotten this all wrong, just as he always did. Slick, sickly disgust flooded him, banishing the satisfaction that had come from teaching Jimmy a firm, unforgettable lesson.

“Fine,” he spat, throwing up his hands. “You want him here, you can go fetch him, but don’t expect me to watch him treat you like you ain’t nothing more than a fast trick with an easy smile.”

He regretted the words the moment he uttered them. They drifted between them, their edges like sharpened knives, and Arthur waited for the moment when Eliza would realize she was better off leaving him in the darkness where he belonged. It was what any sensible person would do.

Arthur was never entirely sure how they’d gone from one moment to the next. All he could remember were the moments in which their lips moved against each other, hungrily and desperately, as though the waning night were all the time left to them in the world.

He felt himself grow hard the moment her slim, agile body molded to his. Wild, clawing fingers tangled in her hair as she tugged on his suspenders, drawing him further and further up the staircase to the scant few rooms above the saloon. Their clumsy, hurried steps brought them nearly tumbling into the room at the top of the stairs. Arthur spared only enough thought to kick the door shut behind them before he nearly tore at her clothes, the need to feel her, have her, overwhelming every sense and rational thought.

It was only one night, they whispered to each other once the burning heat that had driven them together finally abated and cooled. It was only one night in a hundred, a thousand, that would come after.

How much could it matter, anyway?

*

Arthur tugged on his pants, careful not to rattle the rickety iron frame of the bed.

Pale sunlight seeped in through the grimy, curtainless window. It was early yet; the town would only just be waking, the roads still largely empty. He stood, grimacing at the creak of the floor beneath the bulk of his weight, and swiftly slid his arms through the sleeves of his shirt.

He paused as his fingers trailed up the buttons. Traces of her sweet, honeyed scent still lingered on the fabric. Arthur glanced over his shoulder, expecting to find Eliza still clinging to the few moments of slumber she could spare before heading downstairs to open the saloon.

He was surprised to find her already awake and alert. She pressed the hem of the blanket to chest as she sat up, draping the long, chestnut flow of her hair over her shoulder as she watched him.

“You’re leaving,” she said after a moment.

Arthur sighed as he pulled his suspenders over his shoulders. It should’ve only been one night—he’d known that, _still_ knew it, and yet this was the third morning he’d found himself curled beside her in bed, the taste of her still lingering on his tongue. He reached for his belt with numb, reluctant fingers, resolving for the moment to remain silent. The scam Hosea had crafted had played out according to plan, but victory had come with a price. Too many eyes were on them now, their faces easily recognized, and so it was time for them to depart. It was the life he’d been thrown into, the only one that had ever made much sense to Arthur. And yet, as he buckled his holster into place, he couldn’t help but feel a strange tinge of remorse at what he would be leaving behind.

He looked down, focusing his gaze on the tips of his worn boots. It should’ve only been one night. He’d well and truly made a mess of things this time.

“I can’t stay,” Arthur felt himself say as he grabbed his coat from the chair on which he’d thrown it. He turned to face her, his face a shattered mask of feigned indifference. “I ain’t sure when I’ll be able to come back.”

Eliza picked idly at the threads of the blanket, her expression listless and her eyes sharp with knowing. “People come and go all the time. I didn’t expect you to be much different.”

The words lanced through him. Arthur sighed and took a step toward the bed. “Eliza, I—”

“Arthur, I can take care of myself,” she insisted as she looked up at him. Her face was hard, devoid of all the soft, welcoming edges that Arthur had grown fond of, despite his best intentions.

He reached for his hat and considered what he might say. Arthur foraged and fumbled for the right words, but the only ones that flitted through his mind were the ones that had haunted him every hour he spent inside her.

_It was only supposed to be one night._

“I know,” he mumbled, feeling more useless by the minute.

Eliza crept to the edge of the bed. Silence lingered between them, the terse, unforgiving kind that always seemed to herald a departure. Arthur wondered if he should reach for her, comfort her, but even that felt wrong somehow. She was a strong girl, as she had just so astutely reminded him. She had made her own way through the world while Arthur still bumbled along through it; whatever came next, he was sure she would meet it with all the grace and fortitude he’d witnessed these last weeks.

She cleared her throat and looked up at him, her expression softened and edging toward curious. She blinked in the budding sunlight and let out a resigned sigh.

“You could at least tell me what you _really_ do before you leave,” Eliza said with a small, sly smile.

Arthur balked. His fingers curled along the brim of his hat. “I told you, I—”

She held up a hand. “I know what you said, Arthur. You said a lot of things, actually, some of which I guess was true. But if you’re going to leave, please—just tell me one real thing about you.”

It never paid to tell the truth. Arthur had spun so many lies that he very often couldn’t tell—or didn’t bother to determine—what was true anymore. Mary had known the truth about him, and it had done nothing but earn him sorrow and loneliness in the end. But Eliza wasn’t Mary—in fact, Arthur realized with a start, this was the first time he’d thought of his former fiancée at all in the last few weeks. If he had to thank Eliza for anything, he supposed it would be that.

That, and many other things besides, but there wasn’t enough time.

So, Arthur told her the truth. She listened, never once batting an eye as he admitted that business was, in fact, a relative term for what he and his associates did for a living. Thieving and scheming were what had brought them here and what now urged them to leave, and it would always be what kept Arthur from a life he might otherwise have led.

Eliza nodded when she was sure he was done. “Thank you,” she said softly, “for telling me the truth.”

And Arthur, for the first time in as long as he could remember, felt a fraction of the weight he carried with him lifted from his shoulders.

It wouldn’t last. He knew that as well as he knew he would likely never see Eliza again. Arthur held tight to the smile that had banished the storm of his sorrow as they packed up their meager camp and satiated himself on the memory of her taste as they rode through the hills and into the world beyond. In the days that followed, Arthur found his thoughts straying toward the old dusty town and the wide-eyed, strong-hearted waitress that had shown him kindness and tenderness, however brief it might have been. He wished Eliza well, satisfied with the thought that men like Jimmy wouldn’t dare trespass against her again, and imagined what it might be like if he found his way back there one day.

It was a pleasant thought, but nothing more than that. Still, Arthur thought, it wouldn’t hurt to dream of it, even if only for a night.


End file.
